Lipstick and texts
by conchepcion
Summary: What happens when Molly starts wearing lipstick and Sherlock starts sending her texts. Sherlock/Molly Post-Reichenbach.
1. Prologue

It began with the lipstick.

It went from nude to childish pink to a womanly scarlet shade.

Her smile became difficult not to notice, except gone was the obvious grinning.

It continued with the walking.

Previously she'd bounce, always with a spring in her step, and a sort of carelessness.

Instead there was determination and a pair of heels.

He asked her why she was dressing up for dead people.

She said even the dead needed a last salute.

He didn't get it.

Gone were the flowery patterned frocks, beige trousers and ponytail hair.

Now there were skirts, pantsuits and her naturally curled hair.

He could see her walking down the streets turning heads.

Seeing Lestrade making passes.

Of course she hadn't done it for him.

She hadn't done it for anyone.

He'd even followed her to check.

There was no toothy boyfriend in a suit with an Irish accent, there was no big-eyed bloke, and there was none in her view.

She seemed to be blind to them.

It was odd for he knew flattery was her key, yet she seemed unnerved.

At one point he was convinced _the woman_ had taken possession of her, yet he saw in her eyes the same gleam of innocence, the same ever-lasting optimism.

There was just one look that was different, and that was when she looked at him.

It happened the night he needed her, since then he'd been needing her a lot, helping on collecting clues, keeping people off his track and making sure John knew that she believed him dead and a fraud.

She was playing the part excellently, and he was almost convinced that this was a part of it, but it wasn't.

That look in her eye said something.

Molly Hooper had gone from being boring to something entirely different, but then again she might never have been boring, _he just wasn't looking._

It started with the texts.

They didn't need to be answered at first, but then soon enough there came demands.

Then his stupid objects started to occupy her apartment.

Her otherwise completely sterile girly apartment was filled with grimy landscapes of odd objects and her fridge would have the occasional human limb(s) (head, hand, whatever was his fancy).

At first he'd suddenly appear at her home and occupy her living room for some hours, to nights where he stayed on her sofa bed disappearing by dawn, and then it grew to the days he'd stay eating her food.

At first he'd come with comments and remarks on her homestead (as he called it), and her apparel.

Well, that hadn't changed, but he was milder.

His tone had changed.

He had been so harsh and demanding.

He was less harsh, and asked (one in a while).

He'd even say "thank you" (some times), having supposedly learned from his previous experience with her.

To begin with he had no interest in her social-life, or where she went, but soon enough she caught him in the corner of her eye spying.

She enjoyed it.

She liked making him confused, for she knew neither what had come over her, but it was a bout of confidence.

It might have itched towards her when she found herself having to lie.

A skill she never thought she'd be good at, and a skill she never really supposed she needed.

But she was needed.

He needed her, maybe not in that way, but she couldn't help being amused.

He was a bit of a child, having unsettling days, yammering on her sofa, before getting brilliant ideas in his head.

He was going to hammer down on her previous boyfriend's gigantic web.

She didn't call him her boyfriend, and she did indeed dump him, but she had been disappointed.

A man shows interest in her, and then he has only eyes for Sherlock.

She laughed at the irony.

Yet here they were, she his only confidante and friend - the man she had admired for years ends up sulking on her sofa bed, and taking space in her bedroom with his gadgets.

Not in the way she wanted of course, but she loved to imagine it despite herself.

He was still handsome, even in disguise, for he couldn't stride around in his coat and scarf as he fancied.

He had to go as ordinary as possible.

She would have recognised those eyes in a heartbeat, _which was why she still was an idiot._


	2. Chapter 1

She'd put on the lipstick, adjust straps, re-do her mascara, pull on her dress, put on her heels, as he poured over her computer.

He had his back to her, gazing at her reflection, which bounded off the picture frame in front of him.

This was their song and dance - their ritual.

She pretends she doesn't care for his opinion.

He pretends he has no opinion.

This had been going on for months, the dating – besides the scheming, pretending and just general lying through her teeth - Molly had been having fun.

She was entirely entitled to, as men seemed to be drawn to her more – due to her evasiveness.

The more mysterious she was the better.

She assumed Sherlock read her like an open book.

When all the changes came in, he thought she was just a good actress, but he noted that it kept continuing besides work.

The whole thing became a part of daily life – _change_, more or less.

He'd always known where he had John.

He always knew his reactions beforehand and what to expect of him, which was why John needed not to know.

Molly on the other hand was a puzzle.

She'd been an open-book before.

But when she had just said yes to him, to this whole thing, everything changed.

"Where is Lestrade taking you?" he asked, as a matter-of-factly.

He'd always ask this question.

He'd say it was because he needed to know how long it would take, know her route, ensure he could calculate her return and more or less know everything was "secure".

"Some restaurant in Soho," she said eyeing him.

Despite not telling him, he'd know anyway, and she could even see him raising his brows at the choice.

"He isn't getting a divorce quite yet," said Sherlock with a hint of a smile on his lips.

"No, I wouldn't call this a date anyway. He's quite lonely," she said with emphasize on the last sentence, despite herself.

For Lestrade had more or less been demoted after the fiasco with Sherlock, which of course wasn't something Sherlock enjoyed being reminded of.

"You seem to. You're wearing your favourite dress,"

She'd ask why he deemed it her favourite – "It's the one you keep on a hanger, instead of tossing it over your chair. You care for this dress, it's less frayed than the rest." – but she knew he'd inform her anyway.

He'd told her she looked good in that once.

"It doesn't mean I'm wearing it for him," she said.

"Well, who else then," he said.

"A girl can dress up for herself, Sherlock," she said crossly.

"No, they don't. You're a woman. A woman specifically dresses to impress," he said.

"Well, let me then," she said putting on her coat heading for the door.

"You're sighing, did I express something you didn't like?" said Sherlock standing up from the computer, holding the door impressively open for her.

"You _always_ express something I don't like," she said.

He snorted.

She just stood there, lingering on the doorstep looking at him, tilting her head – a smile creeping up on her face.

"You've always been so handsome to me you know, I suppose it has to do with something in you, which I admire-," she started.

"What is that?" he said sounding a bit hoarse.

"That even how hard you try, you'll always care," she says, and with that she trots off in high heels and all.

He stands there holding the door open, before finally shutting it.

He sat down on the sofa. He had not expected that. That it was obvious to her. She'd always seen him. Yet, again he'd never expected to be jealous.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was holding up doors.<p>

He was pulling chairs.

He was making jokes and pokes.

She was nodding and grinning.

She'd just turn around once to wipe away at her eyes.

The apartment was empty when she returned.

Toby spent the rest of the night in her bed.

* * *

><p>Her lips were distracting though, despite their smallness.<p>

Eyes were focused, not perfect, form small, breasts minor, laugh annoying, gaze infuriating and smile childish.

Everything was a nuisance.

From the way she smelt, to the way her hair curled on her pillow, and the way she wouldn't know of her unconscious effect on other men.

It was the lack of a proper case, yet he had myriads to think about, and to be interested in.

He did indeed have loads to do, except there he sat well placed in a chair right by her bedside.

He was fascinated over what change does.

Her smile had gone from sweet to seductive, her smell became an intoxicating fragrance, her form beautiful.

He never gave compliments without an agenda.

He needed to get away.

* * *

><p>She didn't see him for months.<p>

She stopped seeing Lestrade.

She stopped seeing anybody.

She'd focus on her work.

Her focus was entirely on that.

She tried at least, especially when she'd see John who'd try to convince her that Sherlock was still alive.

It was gruesome.

She'd hoped he was convinced that she thought Sherlock was a fraud.

Of course writing that on her blog didn't convince John of anything, and neither did it when she stood in front of him either.

"He's still alive, I've been hearing things, rumours running around," said John, as he stood in her office, holding his cane.

He'd gotten the limp back, and she knew why.

"I saw him John, he was dead on my slab – it would take a lot to fool me," she says not meeting his eye.

He looked sad.

"It would take Sherlock."

He was right, except it took her _and_ Sherlock.

A pairing no one would ever assume could happen, and probably wouldn't.

Who was she kidding?

Soon enough, he'd reveal himself, and everything would go back to what it was.

She would just look at him, and he would look at her in the same way again.

Nobody would ever need to know that she helped him.

* * *

><p>It came out.<p>

Everyone knew.

Everyone knew the truth.

There was some speculation at her work, but she feigned that he'd fooled all.

No more questions were asked, as she played that she was equally in the dark about the whole thing.

He didn't seem to announce that he had any help either, but then again he didn't say much about the thing.

The newly reinstated Lestrade did that instead.

Everything went back to normal, as normal as it could.

He didn't show up at her work, but she'd notice the movement of some of her things.

She was almost under the impression that he was avoiding her.

* * *

><p>"You've been avoiding Barts," says John.<p>

"Why would I avoid Barts?"

"You tell me. Molly didn't believe in you, but she knows the truth like everyone else now," said John.

"She did," he says, looking thoughtful with his violin in his arms.

"What?"

* * *

><p>The pillows of her bed were neatly stacked, the sheets looked barely used, and it was true.<p>

Her sofa was her common sleeping place, she'd fall asleep there while the television was on, and it was silly.

She wouldn't even watch, she'd try, but her mind would wander.

What was her life really – if not a big endless time of waiting – of staying alive.

Keeping on pretending was difficult, keeping on pretending that she didn't care was even worse, and trying to comprehend what she actually felt was horrendous.

There was a knock.

She blinked.

_Someone here now?_

There was another knock.

_It was quite desperate to knock on her door after midnight._

She climbed out from under her blankets.

Someone knocked again.

She opened the doors.

"John?" she said puzzled.

She'd half-expected it to be him.

Of course it wasn't.

"Can I come in?" he says, peering inside and looking at her with furrows between his brows.

"Sure, what's wrong?" she asks, as he settles down on her sofa, pushing off pillows to the side, and petting Toby who jumps on him.

"Sherlock, actually, and from what I can see – _you_," he says with a grim expression whilst eyeing her worn-down pyjamas and dishevelled hair.

She hadn't dressed for the occasion entirely.

"Oh," she says automatically boiling some water, trying to keep her hands busy, as she knows where this will go.

"He told me, or well he didn't really say anything. So you've known all this time-," he says looking a bit disappointed.

"I'm sorry-," she said a bit flummoxed.

"You don't have to apologize, I just wanted to thank you for what you did. It must have been hard. I can barely stand him at times, and I can only imagine how it would've been for you," he said.

"Yes, well, it worked out didn't it?"

"Molly – do you love him?" he asks.

She turned around and pushed her sleeve into her eye.

"No," she says.

"I'd love to think you weren't lying, but I don't believe you for a second,"

"I think you better go-,"

"He's miserable you know. He thinks I don't see it, but I do."

"How can he be miserable? Nothing ever happened between us."

"Exactly," he said and left just as she put out the cups of tea on the table.


	3. Chapter 2

The dance continued.

Sherlock started to show up at her work again.

He'd ask for coffee.

She'd give him coffee.

He'd make snide remarks.

She'd return them and both would almost look angry.

John would just stand between them amused.

She'd go on dates again, start being silly again, and her bed was once again in frequent use (for sleep of course).

He'd make comments on her attire.

She'd just smile at him.

He'd pretend not to care.

They'd argue about the mortuary.

She'd reclaim things he'd taken without her permission.

He'd take more things just to irritate her, and she'd report him (though much good that did).

She was on a date one evening. Her date, a handsome man called Darren stepped off to the men's-room for a quick moment.

She got a text as soon as he left. She looked at her phone in surprise.

_He's compensating – SH_

Molly looked around the restaurant, but saw no one fitting his description.

What?

A reply immediately followed.

_He doesn't have much to boast about. – SH_

How would you know?

_I followed him – SH_

You're stalking my date?

_No – SH_

She laughed, her date returned. She tried to spot Sherlock, but she couldn't find his fine brown curls anywhere. Darren quickly distracted her, except when another text popped up.

_He's married – SH_

Of course he was right, one could see it on her date right away, especially by the fact that he kept eyeing the exits like he was guilty.

He had the most fidgety behaviour, and seemed to be constantly perspiring despite the heavily air-conditioned room.

"Darren, do you love your wife?" she asks, breaking the conversation, which he was primarily having with himself.

Darren spits out some of the wine he just drank.

"It's OK, but don't you love your wife? You keep checking the exits like a mad-man, so this must be your first time, isn't it?"

For a second he looks like he's going to run away, except he just puts down his wineglass.

"She's been cheating to be honest, and well-,"

"Revenge?"

"Yeah,"

"Go home Darren, go talk with your wife, I'll pay up and we'll pretend this never happened," she says, and he looks at her bewildered for a few moments, mutters his thanks, and wanders off. Molly sits there quietly for a while, before paying up, and leaving. She wonders for a while where Sherlock is, but reasons with herself that it is better not to ask.

* * *

><p>"Are you texting?"<p>

"Yes."

"To whom are you texting?"

Sherlock just looks at John.

"Sherlock!"

"Fine," he says, before pausing a while and uttering the name slowly "Molly,"

John laughs, Sherlock looks at him angrily, and he puts on a serious expression, before bursting out in more laughter.

"What is so funny?"

"You're texting."

"I always text."

"I know, but you're texting Molly. You didn't even answer Irene Adler, and here you are _texting_ Molly."

Sherlock just looked grim, before putting his phone in his pocket, and looking through his microscope.

"No," he says.

"What?" says John laughing behind his newspaper.

"I know what you are going to say-,"

"Well, it is only natural for me to be curious of what the two of you are _texting _about."

"It's about a case," he says, before being attentive to the blood samples.

"I didn't know you needed to send 12 texts for that?" says John, eyebrow raised. Sherlock eyes snap into his direction.

"It's an important case," says Sherlock.

"You're probably right, but I thought Molly was on a date tonight-," says John, who hides himself behind the newspaper. In a matter of seconds he finds the newspaper grabbed away from his front.

"_Another _date?"

"Well, Greg asked her out again," said John smiling.

Sherlock looked distraught, before he got dressed.

"Where are you going?" John asked, getting no reply as the door already slammed shut. He was left alone laughing.

* * *

><p>Molly was sitting in her apartment. She'd been receiving texts from Sherlock for the last couple of days. They'd still meet at the morgue, but they'd never talk about the texting. It was fairly odd, how he'd absolutely brushed her off when he appeared at her work, stealing her samples, using her dead bodies, but didn't talk about the fact that he had seen her date the night before. She'd question it, except she couldn't downright understand it. The moment he'd brushed past her, and left - her phone vibrated.<p>

_I'm sorry –SH_

She used a moment to gape over the text, before recovering.

Sorry for what?

She didn't get a reply to that at first, and she didn't entirely know why she'd gotten it in the first place. The whole scenario was odd. Everything they'd ever sent to each other had been demands on his part and answers on hers.

_I'm not good at this sort of thing._

Texting?

_Yes._

No one ever gets good at texting, without practising.

_What does one talk about?_

Is there anything you want to talk about?

At this point she didn't hear from him in a while, a small part of her could feel him thinking somewhere, and it was quite odd. She wasn't accustomed to him being _human_, yet when they met he seemed quite the opposite.

"What do you need today?"

"Just the lab, thank you."

Usually she'd just tiptoe around him, fetching things, having occasional small talk with John, except John wasn't with him, and there was no use of her. She was about to walk off.

"Where are you going?" he asks, not looking up from his microscope, his face still stuck looking through the lens.

She's a bit surprised, as she wheels around.

"I'm going to work, actually," she says with a cheery red-lipped grin.

"Aren't you going to try to have a conversation with me – we should manage to do that – we have after all lived in the same premises for a while," he says haphazardly, glancing at her briefly.

"That was then, this is now," she says, almost on her way out of the door.

"We've texted," he says looking up from his microscope, taking slow steps into her direction.

"I'd call it texting if there was any continuity in it, as I remember you haven't actually answered my question," she says, holding on the door, and looking up at him expectantly.

"Shall I gush?" he says, standing inches from her now.

"What?"

"Shall I flatter you?" he says raising a brow at her.

"Flatter me?" she says almost bursting out in laughter.

"Yes, tell you that you look well. That I want you, that I admire you, that I need you?" he says staring at her, he's so close now she can feel his breath upon her skin.

"No," she says, almost surprised at her own abrupt hurried answer, but she means it.

He brushes her lightly on the shoulder, his gaze still on her face.

"Molly," he whispers. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything,"

"I'll never flatter you, you know," he says.

"I wasn't actually expecting that, to be honest,"

"What were you expecting?" he asks, voice hoarse, breath close, as his hand seems to slip around her wrist. They were inches away from each other, staring into each other's eyes.

"A text," and she pulls away her wrist and herself smiling out of the room.

Sherlock stood there a bit bewildered, for she seemed to be reacting to his advances, except she wasn't. The signs were there, her pulse was alarmingly high, and her pupils were dilated; yet she walked away. There was no interruption, no hindrance between the pair, and yet still she walked away.

He wasn't entirely sure if he knew how to play this game. He doubted that asking John would help him entirely, the man had never successfully kept a relationship, but then again neither had he. Wait, _relationship_? The word struck him as odd; he almost made a grimace over the fact that the thought had occurred to him even, that it was in his vocabulary. A relationship. No. Of course this had always been a relationship of sorts. She'd bring coffee. He'd make a comment to get something. He'd get it. She'd fawn. Now, it was different. Now she wore lipstick and didn't fawn. Not openly. Instead she smiled to different men, and looked at him intently. It wasn't the same open gaze. Not the same open smile. It was mild curiosity that brought her in his mind, he'd repeat that to himself often, but then again – he could have stopped with the text. Instead here he was asking for her to reveal her inner thoughts. He brought out his phone, stared at it for a while, before deliberating what he should write.


	4. Chapter 3

_Our relationship - SH_

What relationship?

_This relationship.  
><em>

The - I bring you coffee, and you drink it?

_No. _

I wouldn't call it a relationship of sorts Sherlock, a friendship maybe.

_So we are friends?_

When have we not been?

_You haven't been talking to me the same._

Well, you left, it's difficult for conversations when the other person isn't there. Then again you wouldn't know.

_I have noticed that you haven't been there._

John, doesn't make you coffee I take?

The texts would vary, going from downright silly to subtext to arguments.

They never did address the problem at hand, just skate around it, which was why she was in her apartment, and not on another date.

It was impossible to be on a date, when she'd receive texts with various assumptions on the man's character, before he'd even open his mouth.

How Sherlock was not there, but then again was there was amazing.

Not that she'd inform him about that fact.

The texts would also always come in utterly inappropriate moments, like when Lestrade asked her out again –

_No - SH_

What?

_Don't go on a date with him. _

And why? We both know him. He's a nice guy.

_He's not ready. He's still in love with his ex-wife, soon to be wife again._

She just apologized to Lestrade, and made up some clever lie of being busy and important with the dead.

No, she was in her apartment, watching telly, and hiding under her covers. Not that she cared, as it kept her from an awkward setting.

She could only imagine the sort of texts he would start sending her if she were to go on a date with Lestrade again.

Had she in fact wanted to go on a date with Lestrade, she would have, despite his efforts to warn her.

There was knock on the door.

She half-expects John back at her door.

She snorts, as the knocks turn more urgent.

Before she even gets to it, the door burst open.

Sherlock strides in, stopping the moment he sees her on the sofa.

He looks sort of surprised, before eyeing her from top to bottom.

"You are not on a date, then," he says rather breathlessly.

"No," she says sort of in awe of his distraught appearance.

"Not on a date with Lestrade, then, as I can see. You have gotten in-doors with the kettle on written on your face," he says in a clipped tone.

"Did you _run_ here?" she asks standing up from her spot in the sofa. "There isn't anything wrong is there?"

His blue eyes are hooked on hers.

She raises her brows.

"Absolutely nothing wrong," he says, and it almost seems as if he's about to leave.

The door is still ajar.

"Oh for Gods sake Sherlock – just say it," she says annoyed.

"Say what?"

"You're supposed to be the clever one, yet you send texts, you come running here mortified over the idea that I could possibly be on a date," she says slamming the door shut in front of him.

"I am not _mortified_," he says, and this time she moves to him closely.

She stares up at him, before putting a hand on his warm pounding chest.

"What do you want then?"

"I asked you the same. _You_ did not answer. Do you _expect _me to answer?"

"I don't expect anything," she says, smiling up at him, a faded shade of red on her lips.

"You've already said that," he says breathing down on her.

"You're in my apartment," she says grinning.

"Yes," he says irritated at his foolish behaviour.

They just look at each other; she smiles, and is about to walk away, before he starts murmuring in her ear "Are you walking away again?"

"Well, I wasn't expecting dinner," she says pulling on the top button of his black shirt, while looking at him coyly.

"Where have you heard that?" he murmurs back.

"People do talk Sherlock," she says with a smile.

"So do you want to know?"

"Know what?"

"If I've had dinner before-,"

"Not really-," she says, slipping away from him. He stares at her; she stares at him back, as he removes his coat. "-_Interested_ – are you staying?"

"You've got the kettle on," he says putting his coat over a chair, folding his scarf, heading towards her kitchen.

"Yes, I have," she says, and he starts to make a fresh new batch.

Fetching cups from her kitchen cupboard making him and her cups of tea.

She could confess that the gesture itself was surprising. "I didn't know you were domestic."

"I might not do it, but it _doesn't mean I don't know how to_," he says stirring milk and sugar into the cups.

"So, do you want to know?"

"I thought you were going to tell me, I didn't know I had to consent," she says, as he hands her the cup of tea, their fingers grazing each other.

"Well, I have to be sure you're ready," he says smirking.

"I've got a cup of tea, I won't be anymore ready than now," she says grinning settling down on the chair by the kitchen counter gesturing that she's prepared.

"I suppose I should shut up during this, shouldn't I?" she adds in his silence.

He just stares, smiling vaguely, before looking pensive.

His cup of tea is untouched on the counter.

"I have found myself _distracted_ before," he says his gaze fixed on her. "When I was younger I made a game of it. Unbeknownst to my brother who still firmly believes I know nothing on the subject," and while he says that he's stroking the inside of her wrist.

She swallows, trying to be caught up in what he's saying, instead of what he's deliberately doing on her wrist.

"I learned a great deal, but I was never starved for it. It was a great amusement of course, but I have been avoiding it ever since," he says making small decisive circles now.

"Of course, my interest has _peaked_ on occasion, and my appetite has been a bit varying to be honest."

"I thought you didn't do compliments," she says, trying to slip her arm away, but he holds her back.

"I don't," he says.

"What are you saying then?" she says staring down at her wrist.

"Why did you start wearing lipstick?" he asks.

"I thought you were going give answers, not questions," she says amused licking her faded red lips.

"You weren't supposed to talk," he says.

"That's a promise you know I could never keep," she says.

He let's go of her wrist, and goes around the counter.

As she sits, he towers over her.

"I do find you interesting," he says.

"That's because you don't understand do you?" she says standing up.

He looks at her puzzled; she keeps a certain distance between them.

"I got over you, _well_, the best I could – get over you, and it would have been easier, if you'd not been so interested."

"Oh, but your pulse-,"

"Chemistry, not feelings. Nothing's ever happened between us. You lived here for months. Not properly, but here I was swanning about you. You never gave me the time of day-," she says frustrated at him and her.

"I noticed-,"

"You never gave a sign. You just left, and all of a sudden you were alive again. And then the texting began, makes it difficult for a girl to forget."

"You're lying," he says.

"No, no, I'm not. It might be surprising, but I'm not," she says a bit angrily.

"Yes, _yes _- you are lying. You haven't changed for me. You haven't changed at all. You are just not afraid of me anymore," he says closing in the distance between them.

He was never one for knowing someone's personal space.

"I've never been afraid of you-," she says almost in spite.

"You never spoke up,"

"Just means I was shy-,"

"Then I asked you for a favour-,"

"Yes, well, you always ask for favours-,"

"But I never supposed you'd say yes-," he says, and his eyes are searching her face.

For a second she almost reverts to her old self, the old mouse she calls it.

She was just a silly girl standing in front of a man.

This time it isn't something he needs, or anything of the sort.

He isn't flattering her.

"That you'd be willing to set yourself in the line for me, like that."

"There is plenty of people who would-,"

"No, there aren't. Very few would, and I would like to thank you," he says reaching for her hand.

She looks at his outstretched hand, before putting hers in his reluctantly.

His hand is warm, as they shake firmly.

He doesn't let go of her hand though.

"Thank you. You might be the most pleasant distraction I've come across," he says.

"A distraction means something that will pass-," she avoids his eyes, keeping hers steadily on his chest.

He is staring at her too firmly for her liking.

"When has anything never passed?" he asks, hand still holding hers, as he moves even closer.

She can feel the heath emanating from his body.

"I don't want to be something that passed-," she says finally looking him in the eye again.

She regrets it when she catches his eye.

His gaze is piercing; his hand is warm, as he whispers leaning into her ear, "I don't want you to."

She holds her breath.

She did not expect that.

She expects him to release her hand and go wordlessly.

He doesn't.

He's still there, a living-breathing phantom in her home staring into her eyes.

She's about to ask him to leave, but then he does what she never anticipated.

He leans in, not for a whisper, not for any sort of jest.

His aim is for a kiss.

She doesn't stop him, the second his lips meet hers – whatever was slow and patient vanished. It's a hungry kiss, she moans into his mouth, as they collide against the wall causing picture frames to plummet into the floor. Her hands are around his neck and in his hair, as his hands roam her body. He starts to un-do her top, opening buttons with a hurried determination, as they head in the direction of the bedroom.


	5. Chapter 4

She woke up.

Her phone was vibrating in the living room.

Luckily it was on silent, so she rolled over ignoring it.

She rolled right into the emptiness of her bedside.

Hitching her breath as she recalled the previous night.

Waking up in the bed it was obvious that any evidence of his staying was gone.

The only evidence was the smell of him on her sheets.

Of course he didn't stay.

She sort of didn't know how she would have handled that morning if he had. She laughed at the idea of herself scampering around covered in a half a sheet trying to make breakfast. When he lived at her place, he never really touched her food to begin with, and she gave up making a plate for him. By that point he'd start stealing from her fridge and nick from her plate - apparently having his own plate was too distracting.

She would have tried to fill her own plate with too much food this morning. He would pick of it absentmindedly and in the end eat more than half of the contents. They'd have odd subtext in their conversation and he'd leave for something or the other. Now they'd just skipped breakfast.

She heard her phone vibrate into the floor of the living room with a clatter.

"Shit," she muttered, before wrenching her covers off, slipping into her robe, and cursing under her breath as she wandered to the living room.

She picked up her phone, and was surprised to find three texts from him.

_Case. _

She was astonished that he was actually explaining himself to begin with – even if the explanation was one-word.

_Made coffee. _

She became aware of the freshly made pot in her kitchen. This made her laugh, though of course there he did need to explain himself.

Despite the fact that she knew he was the only other person in her apartment – it was incredible to think he had been thoughtful.

It wasn't breakfast in bed, it wasn't dinner – it was coffee, and just simple enough to give the smallest of hopes that maybe she wasn't entirely delusional.

_Later. _

Oddly enough she knew what he meant.

* * *

><p>John was trying to conceal his grin, when he caught sight of Sherlock's less than un-frayed clothes. Sherlock could have read his own appearance like an open book. The dishevelled hair, the way his shirt creased, the open upper button, the hurriedly tied bow on his shoelace was all <em>evidence<em>.

Of course this wasn't what John was seeing.

John was seeing the upturned corner of his mouth.

It was the flicker in the eye, the slight smile and the minor softened manner of his pronouncing them to be idiots. His speech was as usual fast, yet there was a marked difference in the deliverance. The way he gave his speech, gave the sense that he wasn't showing off to them for once. His audience was somewhere else entirely.

"Your phone's been silent," remarks John, as they sit on a cab back to Baker Street. "The case was also a 5, you said you'd only ever leave the flat for a 7, _so_ why did you go?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"You've been glancing at your phone every few seconds, you were definitively at her place-,"

"Neither of us were home last night John," he says.

John had obviously been using someone else's toothbrush from the looks of it. He ignored Sherlock's remark, as he knew it was made to throw him off the conversation.

"Then why did you want to leave? Especially when you could have probably made a video conference on your phone or something?"

Sherlock glanced irritated at John as he instinctively picked up his phone. John raised a brow at him, before Sherlock pocketed his phone again.

"Oh, _OH_, I see," says John chuckling, as the cab stops.

Sherlock pays the fair and gets out.

John sees his silence as an invitation to continue his _deduction_.

"Oh, _you_ know. This is the whole mysterious cheek bones thing again-,"

For a moment, Sherlock is abruptly caught off guard, as they enter Baker Street; "Sorry?" he says, looking a bit altered when they enter the apartment.

"Yes, well, _you know_ – you're acting mysterious towards Molly because that is what you expect she likes about you. Running off being a hero, so you don't have to deal with the situation."

"There isn't a situation," says Sherlock.

"You said to me - that this wasn't your area, and you're right. It definitively isn't your area," says John chortling.

Sherlock's only reply is tending to his violin.

* * *

><p>A distraction was needed, for her mind to be elsewhere. Despite it coming in the form of her best friend Charlotte, it did not help. They'd talk about work, about her husband, the kids and life in general. It was a nice enough disruption in the thread of thought her mind seemed to wander to. Charlotte seemed to catch on the fact that something was wrong. Probably because of the endless times Molly would go to the kitchen to make tea, despite the fact that they already had a fresh batch right in front of them.<p>

"What's his name?" asks Charlotte knowingly.

Molly looked at her a bit apprehensively.

Charlotte knew, Charlotte had known her since forever, and she'd heard Sherlock's name crop up once in a while. Whether it was of frustration or by the fact that Molly hadn't been able to shut up about him. Charlotte was her only proper confidant. She was destined to wallow through loads of unnecessary information about the detective with the popped up collar.

"Oh, it's this guy," she says avoiding Charlotte's eyes pouring herself another cup of tea, pretending to be more interested in the patterns on the china.

"That's very descriptive. I asked for a name," Charlotte asks with pursed lips.

Molly takes a deep intake of breath and gets the guiltiest of expressions.

"Sherlock Holmes," she says.

"The _dead-guy-not-dead-guy_?" says Charlotte quirking a brow.

"I sort of _helped_ him with that actually," she says grimacing slightly.

"You _what_? Why didn't you tell me?"

"He was supposed to be dead, and well – he was living here-," says Molly who knows that it doesn't sound good.

"He _lived_ here?"

"Not all the time. He came and went you know," she adds while Charlotte looks at her gaping.

"You're saying, you're basically saying that Sherlock Holmes. The great detective you've been fancying for years has been living in your apartment?"

"He isn't now though _obviously_-," Molly says trying to remain cool about the subject.

"No, now you're shagging him," says Charlotte beaming. "This is _amazing_. You've been going on and on about him for years – and now finally _result_."

"Actually we _didn't _have sex-," says Molly, causing Charlotte to frown.

"To be honest, when he sought my help – I assumed I'd not hear from him, and then all of a sudden he was here in my apartment. Seeking refuge in between travels, not letting me in on things, then I was less mouse and became more me."

"He finally looked at you differently, then?" Charlotte enquired.

"You could say that. He stormed in here last night, and before I got to throw him out of my flat – we end up kissing," says Molly, growing crimson by the minute.

Despite what strength her voice held, her skin betrayed her, and as Sherlock often remarked – so did her pulse. Charlotte prodded for more information, but Molly just smiled gingerly winking.

* * *

><p>The moment they'd gotten into her bedroom his hands had gone from urgent to curious.<p>

It was as if he was looking for clues.

Like the corner of her lips would tell him a secret, as he kissed the edges of her mouth.

It was as if the nooks and cranny of her neck would reveal the source of their familiar scent.

He would pause, in between the kisses and caresses - breathing upon her face, as if he'd never laid hands on any woman before.

He unwrapped her from her clothes, every single article being dropped away, meticulously removed, but thrown aside as worthless pieces of fabric.

She was entirely naked, baring her skin, as he was still warm in his clothing.

She was the opposite of cold, as his hands gently stroked every aspect of her.

He wasn't looking for a means to an end, yet she could feel him through the fabric.

His gaze looked serious, his breathing hoarse, as she ventured on top of him.

He looked at her.

He _really_ looked at her, observing every old scar, every freckle and tiny hair that was on her body.

She didn't remove his clothes, for he still kept holding her tight.

Not that she wasn't sure he wanted, as he'd take deep intakes when she'd kiss the bare skin she could reach.

His neck, his hands, and his face were her frequent spots of pleasure.

She had often imagined the softness of his eyelids, his mouth or his cheekbones.

They were now at her disposal.

He was at her willing hands, despite the fabric between them.

For the second she started to un-button his shirt he took hold of her, throwing her underneath him again, pinning her arms above her head.

He would torture her, teasing the inside of her thighs, grazing her nipples, as he spread kisses across her body.

She knew not what game he was playing, but she enjoyed it.

Of course it wasn't to last, when calm finally settled in, breathing became less rapid and deeper.

Her eyes reluctantly fluttered shut and goose pimples pricked upon her skin.

He covered her up, as she ventured instinctively closer to his warm chest.

She wasn't shy.

Molly was beyond shyness it seemed.

She was different from other women he'd come across previously.

Every gasp had been to impress him, every movement for his enjoyment and his ratification.

Molly had no theatricals in bed.

She _enjoyed_ him, she wanted his skin underneath her, and it took him mental prowess to restrain himself.

He was inches away, from tearing his clothes off, and letting their bare skin touch.

Yet, he wanted it to last.

Every conquest he'd ever had gave the overwhelming feeling of emptiness when it was done.

The chase was so much better than the outcome, and he was despite his better judgement - _afraid_.

Already now he knew she was different, from the way she stared at him, to the manner she'd laugh when he overthrew her on the bed. There was suppressed mirth in her features, not due to the way he stole lingering kisses, but from her happiness of it being himself that touched her. In her eyes, he was a hero, despite having fallen from graze being only human. She did not worship him now, for the look, which he had meant was changed had indeed altered. He could not fix the hour as to that flicker in her eyes appeared, but he knew that from the moment she had said, "What do you need?" He'd entangled himself into something deeper, than he'd ever want to presume.

* * *

><p>She re-reads "<em>Later"<em> several times, every time it rolled out and became a new hidden message.

A later meaning never, a later meaning tonight, a later meaning later, and in the end it became a sequence of letters strung into a word pasted into a text message.

For who was she, ever to suppose anything less.

It was her intolerable imagination that bore the assumption he meant _later_.

Of course she knew she was being unreasonable and irrational.

This was how she had been, whom she was skulking in her mind, and she saw it from a clear-cut distance.

Despite her pre-knowledge, it did not make her thoughts wander any closer to thinking about the endless images that flickered past on her television screen.

"_Hello, er, excuse me, but – er - who are you?" she asked timidly, observing the curly dark haired man, who'd positioned himself in her lab. _

"_I'm Graham," he says flashing a badge quite quickly putting up a swift charming smile. A smile she saw didn't catch the eyes, despite its broadness. _

_She stands there with furrowed brows, Graham was a 60-year-old man, and well – this man did not fit the description of any hunched old grey haired man. _

_Especially when Graham had just recently retired. _

"_Er, I know Graham," she says politely, almost feeling like she's badgering him. He was wearing a white lab-coat and had the air of owning the place. _

_She'd almost believed he worked there, hadn't it been for it being her lab. _

_He looks at her, stares at her from head to toe. _

"_You are Molly Hooper, then, the new pathologist?" he says searching her eyes. _

"_Y-y-yes," she says, stammering a bit, despite herself, as he stands in front of her. Close proximity too, as if he's evaluating her. _

"_I'm Sherlock Holmes, Graham usually let's me use his facilities," he says shaking her hand abruptly, before going back to the microscope. _

_His head entirely focused on the blood samples lying about, and the mess he's obviously made with her things._

_She stands there, shifting weight on her feet, being absolutely flustered._

_He finally looks up at her standing there fidgeting, as she has obviously not left._

"_I'll call for you, when I need you," he just says, and that was the first time they met._

She hadn't had the understanding of that sort of brutal form of instant affection before.

She fancied him instantly.

For whatever reason her attraction for him hit her keenly. Forming sentences had been a struggle in front of Sherlock, and he knew how to play advantage on her absolute lack of speech.

She could sense he'd made an effort flattering her, though of course never for it to lead anywhere.

Every pleasing sentence had a backhanded idea behind them.

She sensed that, but she let him.

How could she let this dark haired man out of her sight?

She adored the idea of being his aid, despite the fact that it took her ages, before she mucked up the courage to even suggest making him a cup of coffee.

Their relationship was basic.

She'd run around cleaning up after him, helping him with fresh corpses, and answer his texts about various subjects.

She was never at ease - always constantly squirming and stammering before him.

It wasn't before the disaster with Jim happened that she knew she had to change how she acted around him.

She had already tried with asking him out on a coffee, but she had to be realistic.

Sherlock Holmes on a date?

The fact that she had encouraged the idea was incredible.

She'd give he'd take, that was the basis of their relationship.

When she finally opened her mouth during Christmas, she celebrated to herself in secret – _she had spoken_.

Finally she had said what she felt, and she was rewarded to her surprise with a kiss on the cheek.

He was otherwise mentally occupied anyway, with a woman, Irene Adler, from the entry on John's blog.

Of course she'd been on the woman's website, of course she'd spied and hated herself for a couple of days, before getting to grips with reality.

Needless to say, she'd pulled herself together, and then he shows up with packets of crisps.

Then he needed her and she is for the first time not fearful – she's there to help _entirely_.

No strings attached, he is her friend.

Now however she was mindlessly confusing to him, as he was usually to her.

She saw herself plainly obvious, but then again maybe Sherlock wasn't the man for that sort of thing.

* * *

><p>He had been playing idly on his violin for an hour, his phone lying quietly on the table, while John would eye him occasionally between reading his newspaper.<p>

"You _could_ call her, you know," John says sheepishly folding away the paper.

Sherlock has his back to him silently by the window.

"Sherlock, she's probably been waiting for you to text her all day."

Sherlock's phone vibrates. A message.

John peers at it, as Sherlock hastens to pick it up.

_Not true._

His eyes flicker to John for a second, before a smile appears on his face.

Another text appears seconds later.

_It is quite cold in your bedroom you know. _


	6. Chapter 5

He was puzzled.

Molly Hooper_, the_ Molly Hooper, who'd been duped by Moriarty, who then again duped Sherlock.

She was the girl with the kittens in the background of her blog, the girl who didn't really give the impression of being anything but childishly infatuated in his friend.

Molly Hooper _and_ Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes_ and_ Molly Hooper.

The idea was in itself improbable.

It was however not impossible.

There they were, _whatever_ they were, being, and possibly becoming something.

John was none-the-wiser to be honest.

They were a peculiar bunch.

It wasn't long ago since Molly Hooper was all severed body parts and single female with cat.

Instead now she was all confidence.

John had to admit he found her more attractive in this teasing hybrid.

It was a long way, from Molly Hooper and cats.

It was a long way from Molly Hooper with too many exclamation marks.

He had seen her glee; the curious way she held herself after Sherlock had been declared dead, but only small fragments.

She was still Molly Hooper, but just in a different manner.

A manner in which obviously _troubled_ Sherlock and kept him on his toes.

The fact that Molly Hooper was in fact also _a woman_ was enough to keep Sherlock on his toes.

_Sherlock and women - t_hey were a whole different species in his eyes.

Sherlock didn't despise them, he admired them, but he obviously avoided them.

The twisted relationship with Irene Adler showed that Sherlock couldn't trust his best instincts when it came to women.

However it was evident that Sherlock didn't abhor the idea.

That it would do him some good.

Though John still couldn't understand that it indeed turned out to be Molly.

Yet it showed something that he'd single-handedly pointed her out as his accomplish, for what turned out to be a great magic trick.

"_What? What – you mean that Molly helped you?"_

"_Yes, she helped me stage the whole thing," says Sherlock, fingers on the strings of his violin. He doesn't look at John's face as he continues, "She was the only one who knew, and she kept it a secret."_

"_We're talking of Molly Hooper? The same girl who stutters - at the near sight of you?" says John flabbergasted. _

"_She doesn't anymore," he pauses, putting the violin away "I thought it would be best if we were to avoid mentioning her name about this. I do not think it would be wise for her to have it on her permanent record."_

Sherlock was very vague about the situation, and regularly you'd know every single detail. He'd tell you how they'd done it, how they lived, and whatever unnecessary information that probably reflected poorly on Miss Molly Hooper. That was what John expected, but he did not deliver.

That was enough to convince him to get involved. Not that he did much.

He just talked to Molly. Knowing Sherlock, he knew he'd know of it, and would most likely understand the topic of their conversation.

It didn't take long before they were back at Bart's. John welcomed the return, despite Sherlock's almost angry monologues on her behalf, which Molly took with grins returning the same sentiment. John was just waiting it out, until whatever happened, happened, and something had to eventually. He sensed that they both were on the edge, with the glares, the banter and the ridiculous amounts of power play on both their parts.

"John, why do you feel the need to get involved?" asked Sherlock briskly, before settling in the chair opposite him.

"Involved in what?" asked John giving up reading the paper as a bad job entirely.

"When you told me about Molly on a date with Lestrade. Of course it was a lie," says Sherlock thoughtfully.

"Yes? So? I thought I was helping?" asks John, who fails to hide his smile.

"I understand when people play jokes John. A simple one, and of course it would not have meant so much - had it not been important that I wasn't in the apartment-," he says leaning forward in his chair, with the ever so smallest hint of disappointment in his voice.

John looks a bit aggravated.

"Because you have not been spending your nights here. You have reluctantly moved in with Mary Morstan and yesterday you collected the last of your things," Sherlock ended in one breath, before leaning back in the chair triumphantly.

John sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping, as he made one of his familiar frowns.

"Well, you're right, of course you're bloody right. I'm surprised you didn't notice right away, but you were _busy_. And I didn't want to tell you. I know that you don't approve of Mary."

Sherlock raised his brows.

Of course he knew.

He knew the moment that they took the case with Mary Morstan that it would end their live-in situation.

He had just assumed that John would inform him, before he needed to breach the subject himself.

"We cannot always live together. You cannot always stay a bachelor," he says, after a moment of reflection.

John snorts.

"You will probably be here more anyway-," starts Sherlock with a knowing look on his face.

"Don't-," John interrupts putting his hands up, causing Sherlock to raise his brows, before smirking.

"Do tell me about your on-goings John. I might not be fond of the domestic approach on things, but it does not mean that I do not approve of your doings," Sherlock says after a moment.

"Is that Sherlock for I'm happy for you, because thanks," says John grinning.

They both laugh, knowing fully well, that despite changed situations – it was a very slim chance that they would see less of each other.

"So," continues John without missing a beat "you and Molly?"

"None of your business – and do not write about it on your blog. I do not think that the world is quite ready for it," says Sherlock standing up from his chair.

"Hey, you just asked about Mary and me-," starts John peeved over Sherlock's constant avoidance of the topic.

"I did not ask, John," he says exasperated. "In the case of you and Mary living together – that does affects our living situation, don't you think?"

John opens his mouth to answer, but Mrs Hudson interrupts them.

"Sherlock, there's a package for you," she says slightly ruffled, while carrying a small black sleek box with a silk-ribbon tied on it.

A flicker of surprise shone on Sherlock's face, as Mrs Hudson hands him the box silently. "Who's that from?" asks John, looking at Mrs Hudson.

"Just got delivered," she says raising her shoulders, before peering curiously, as Sherlock unties the silk-ribbon throwing it haphazardly aside.

John expects him to make an announcement of what the contents already are.

Instead Sherlock just looks at the box intently, before slipping off the top revealing -

"Is that _a riding crop_?" asked John his brows disappearing into his hair.

Sherlock picked the riding crop up gingerly from the velvet interior of the box, his brow arched, as he examined it accordingly.

"You've already got one of those, haven't you?" says Mrs Hudson, causing both of them to stare. "Well, you do, you never use it for what it's for though."

John muffles a laugh, before hiding it with a cough.

Mrs Hudson did have spectacular timing.

Albeit always unintentionally.

"Strange gift then, to get something you already have," she adds, "I'll pop off now, leave you to it."

John looks at Mrs Hudson and then Sherlock.

"Leave you to it? _What?_" asks John a bit distraught, as he takes a step back from Sherlock and the riding crop.

Mrs Hudson just laughs nervously, before disappearing down the stairs again.

"Have I _missed_ something?" asks John, peering at the riding crop and Sherlock's amused face.

* * *

><p>There were marks of five-inch heels in the carpet, a feat Mrs Hudson could only dream of.<p>

Someone had touched his violin, the bow lying neatly besides it.

There was a glass on the table, which smelled of red wine, stains of red lipstick on the edge.

He shoved it out of sight, into his chair covering it with a duvet, as he shielded it up with swooping down for his violin.

John hadn't noticed anything, and soon hid himself behind a paper.

Sherlock was observing his bedroom door by the reflection in the window.

_It is quite cold in your bedroom you know. _

It confirms the suspicion he has, but of course, he had been biding his time.

He did not know whether or not he was prepared for whatever waited for him behind that door.

The riding crop had indeed sold him on the idea.

He stared at it for a moment, then John.

"Yes, John, you as always have missed the obvious. Now be a good man, and pop off to Miss Mary Morstan," says Sherlock before adding, "As, you in fact live there now."

John looks at him for a moment, slightly agape, staring at the riding crop, before saying "Sherlock, what's going on?"

Sherlock just smiled vaguely, before heading off to the bedroom leaving John bewildered on the spot.

John suddenly regretted moving, for now he'd be even more in the dark when it came to Sherlock's _relationship._


	7. Chapter 6

She knew already.

His stride, his pose, his hand on the riding crop and his expression were all exalted.

She'd been waiting an hour, in a cold room, overhearing muffled conversation through the door.

Usually, she'd come, get something, and leave.

She had now stroked the spine of his books, tried to decipher his cramped written-notes, and admired the sheets on his bed.

Never had she stepped the threshold of his bedroom before, everything screamed noir.

The entire thing was very well executed down to the ashtray, which was proper crystal it seemed.

His eyes lingered on her bare crossed legs; she was sitting in a chair in the right corner of the room, covered in shadow.

"You said it was cold," he says, quirking a brow at her attire.

She's wearing a coat in doors, with a pair of stiletto heels. "I don't like playing games _Miss Hooper_."

"You shouldn't have kept me waiting then," she says, slipping off the heels, catching him staring.

She laughs, but stops at the expression on his face.

He walks with decisive steps into the direction of her chair, the riding crop firmly at hand.

She looks at it; he latches onto her eyes, before holding it up, as if he needed to inspect it even more.

She fixes her gaze on his shoulder instead.

"Leaving it with Mrs Hudson. You could have scared her stiff," he says a hint of amusement in his voice, as he stops walking – a wide gap still between them.

"She knew that I was in your bedroom-," she says pleased standing up from her chair. "-That would surely have given her fright enough. You didn't seem to care, as you opened it in front of them."

"I didn't know what was inside," he lies.

She removes the distance between them, looking him in the eye.

"Of course you did," she says vexed that he tries to play dumb.

"Of course I did," he says sounding entertained looking down on her face.

"Now, I suggest you hand it over," she says holding one hand out. He glances at her hand, she grins, "You _are _aware that you weren't supposed to get this now?"

"A present is a present. No time better than the present don't you think?" he says like a trickster slipping it behind his back, as she tries to reach for it.

She frowns.

"I am not going to fight you for it," she says crossing her arms at him.

She wasn't really trying and he's not really trying to stop her.

"I wasn't aware that you were going to," he says. "You are in my bedroom, I did suppose I'd win this one."

"_Win?_ I thought you said you didn't play games-," she asks derisively.

"You drank a glass of wine, you took your time before you got into my bedroom. You had an element of surprise, except you knew you didn't, which means you aren't here for-,"

"No, _not that_, of course not," she says not bashful whatsoever.

He blinks momentarily, before regaining his composure.

He can see the faint blush on her skin.

"You are in my bedroom," he says a matter-of-factly.

"Yes, evidentially," she says, walking away from him, uttering, "It is _yours,_" pacing towards the door "I am_ here_, as you were in _mine_," ending her speech just by the entrance.

"Your point?" he says, following her movements with his eyes.

She feels his gaze upon her face, analysing every single action, as she returns to her position in front of him. She licks her lips, puts on an amused expression, before saying "I thought this was the best room for it really."

"For _what_?" he asks, brows furrowed, as he breathes down upon her.

Their mouths are close, as she says in the most elicit of tones, "_I'm _not going to get naked this time." With his blue eyes on her, he slips his one free hand on her wrist, as she tries to grab hold of the whip, which he momentarily forgets.

The attempt on taking it causes him to pressure her up against the door.

He teases, "tut-tut", while pressed up against her. He sees the bare rosy skin underneath her coat for a flash.

Her expression is one mixed with frustration and amusement, for she sees the whip in his hand, which she cannot reach.

"So you expect me to take off my clothes?" he mutters in her ear, disbelieving her supposed agenda.

He's searching her eyes, touching her pulse, and hears her rapid breathing, reveal her inner thought.

"Yes," she says not holding back, her usual demure flush takes apparent pleasure in appearing, but not in the manner he supposes.

He let's go off her wrist, walks off putting the riding crop gently on his desk.

"Or _else_?" he says, taking off his dress jacket, starting to unbutton the wrists of his purple shirt, while keeping his eyes trained on her.

Her back is still firmly on the door where he left her; he sees more of the rosy flesh that protrudes from under the coat.

"I'll leave with the riding crop," she says under a great deal of strain.

It evokes every part of her not to stutter, watching him start to unbutton his shirt, eyes still immovable on hers.

He stops abruptly.

"You seem a bit breathless," he says looking quite cool there he stands, as if he's unaffected.

"Well, it was a very boring conversation to overhear," she says, leaning on the door now with confidence, crossing her legs.

"You had hoped for a more outpour of emotion? A reveal of my feelings perhaps?" he asks her.

"No, I just hoped for a bit more surprising conversation. You took up something you already knew, because you were biding your time. You made me wait, because you wanted me to see your room."

He smirks at her.

"Yes, and you're supposed to get undressed. Get to it. I'll take care of the talking from now on," she says red lips twisted in a wry smile.

His hands return to the buttons, enticingly removing every button at a slow pace still staring at her. She ignores his look.

"You left the apartment for a reason," she says thinking out loud.

He is finished unbuttoning the shirt, revealing his chest, her eyes flash into his direction, but she continues her speech "You needed me here to prove a point."

"What _point_?" he says studying her face, his hands coming to a halt on his belt. She comes close, spreads her warm hands on his chest "That I'd be here _later_."

She can see the effect of her words on his face, for a flash of a second, his armour down as it was before the fall.

"You are," he says with that gaze of his.

"You were _worried_," she says teasingly.

"I know the effect I have on you _Miss Hooper_," he says smugly.

She starts to laugh, but the laughter gets caught in her throat.

His expression softens, as his hands stretch out and reach for her face. He strokes his thumb on her lips, as her lips part ever so slightly.

She stares in his blue eyes, as he starts to leans in whispering, "You aren't wearing anything under your coat."

"You've still got clothes on," she says, but before she manages to squirm away from his grip – he kisses her.

It is a long lingering kiss, not one for those in rush, but deep with emotion.

Somehow, during the tugging and the pulling, the clothes vanish, evaporating between the kisses.

Any plan that had formed in her mind was thrown aside – riding crop forgotten, coat gone, as his hands seemed to be everywhere.

For a brief moment he paused, as they were face to face on the bed. His blue eye stared into hers, one hand pushing some hair that had fallen into her face aside, before he gently stroked the part of flesh between her breasts.

"_Molly_, are you sure?" he tentatively whispers, as he teases her breasts.

She smiles at him for a moment, capturing his lips in a kiss, without a moment of hesitation he's pinned her underneath him.

He trails kisses in her thighs, teasing with his tongue, wiggling free from his grip – she grabs him up to her face, kissing him, before pinning him underneath her.

He just smirks at her for having _overpowered_ him.

Her hands caress his chest, taking time to observe his steady gaze, as she teases him with herself.

His fingers enter, briefly for a few seconds, and she almost slaps his hand away.

He laughs huskily at her frustration, as she holds his arms to his sides, teasing him by wiggling on top of him, kissing his chest, and mouth.

Of course, he easily overthrows her again, but this time it is obvious that it was not for teasing.

She pulls him in with her legs crossed behind his back, arms clasped at his neck, diverting between kissing his mouth and his face, as he pushes into her.

She moans, he breathes deeply, going at a slow pace, which soon quickens.

His grips the board of the bed, the bed banging into the wall, her and his moans mixing in together.

She clasps her legs tighter around him, her hands digging into his back, as he pushes further inside of her.

She moves on top, slowing down the pace, his one hand fondling her breast the other clasping on her hips, as she goes up and down the length of him.

They are slamming up against each other now, as he raises himself up holding her, she moans, they kiss, and soon she's underneath him again – the pace quickens, deepens, harder he pushes through, nails digging in his back, moans louder – then sweet release.

He is ahead, and she is behind.

There is a glow on their entangled bodies.

A giggle escapes her mouth, he looks at her bewildered – "I'm sorry, I-," he captures her mouth with an understanding kiss amidst her laugh.

Molly did not silently weep, or just keep still – _she would laugh._

He looks at her, in a manner she cannot entirely describe, but not in the way of a man who wants to run away.

A thought comes to her, after she's properly calm, peering at him – soft gaze and all.

"Is John still in the apartment?" she asks, for a moment Sherlock stiffens entirely, before breaking out in sounding laughter.

That was answer enough.


	8. Epilogue

When it first came out no one could believe it.

John confirmed it, while they both denied it.

Despite what John had _overheard, _neither was changing their behaviour in public.

Despite finding Molly often wandering around the flat with Sherlock's robe, they'd absolutely contradict it.

It wasn't long before the papers got a sniff of it.

The press soon hounded her, causing her to be even more in Baker Street, until it quieted down.

Sherlock Holmes was indeed interesting alone, but became even more fascinating when there was a woman behind him.

Several concluded that this would be a problem and Molly would be _damsel in distress_.

They unfortunately were dumb enough to think that Molly Hooper wasn't resourceful enough on her own, they were wrong.

Sherlock Holmes became an even worse threat when they threatened her.

They had planned his public suicide and got away with it – _for a reason_.

When they worked together at all, there were venomous back handed comments, childish feuds about overstepping the other person's boundaries and general un-professionalism in their working habits.

They still got the job done, but even John was questioning whether or not they actually _did_ like each other.

The rumour of them being together was only kept alive, due to the fact that innocent bystanders would often find them in cupboards at Bart's kissing passionately, which caused either of them to push the other off and walk away.

If one were to invite them to any sort of event, one had to do it separately, for they ignored the occasion entirely if their names were put together.

At John Watson and Mary Morstan's wedding, they were seated at different tables by request, and ignored each other completely.

It wasn't before Molly found herself attracting male attention that Sherlock would be near.

They'd always disappear after some time, first Molly and then Sherlock.

Nobody really wanted to ask what he or she disappeared off to.

Though there were constant questions about them.

_What were they?_

John would say _girlfriend_, which would cause Sherlock to look at him with the same dislike, as if he suggested him wearing the deerstalker.

Molly would just talk about her work when people asked her questions, specifically her mother.

Everyone expected one of them to start questioning things, which in general meant Molly, but there wasn't even a question.

Molly didn't even blink when Sherlock would disappear to work on an exciting case, and she would completely ignore him if she found a curious one.

She didn't barge in if she was in the apartment.

When a client appeared she'd just wander around ignoring the whole event and read the paper.

John found himself bothered by this, since he'd expected her to be involved somehow.

He could even see that Sherlock was infatuated with her complete disinterest, and often found it more stimulating if the case subject turned out to be less than thrilling.

Of course when they indeed found an interesting case, then Sherlock would not offer Molly a second thought it seemed.

Neither seemed really bothered by this, for when they did indeed meet each other after some time apart – they seemed to be absolutely indifferent.

That was of course to the public eye.

They never were seen out on dinners, or dates of any kind.

Though often John would find Baker Street empty, and when Sherlock wouldn't answer his texts - he'd phone - Sherlock would always answer albeit a bit breathless.

John couldn't see Sherlock being romantic, but then he couldn't see him in a relationship either.

Even his brother Mycroft was somewhat sarcastic about the whole subject, would shrewdly condemn them if they were at the same room, but would offer John money to figure them out.

At one point he'd even offered Molly some money, she'd just looked at him oddly for a moment, before leaving.

Everyone was intrigued by their relationship, which wasn't a relationship, despite the fact that all signs pointed to yes.

When things took to be worse for wear, they'd be hurriedly at each other's side, once comforted that everything was alright, they'd pretend not to have given a slim insight in their private thoughts.

The whole thing was demonstratively irritating to their social circle, but there were moments when you'd just _know_.

Like when Molly would throw daggers at anyone who'd call him a freak, or when Sherlock would look positively murderous when someone looked in Molly's direction, or talked to her in a condescending manner.

These small things extended to Sherlock often caught looking at his phone expectantly, or Molly lurking at Bart's in the evenings more than usual.

There were covert glances and subtext lurking in the sentences they threw at each other.

For it was obvious in the end that they did care for each other, despite none of them condescending to say it out loud in public.

They didn't have passionate quarrels, though they did argue, but not about things that meant something.

All their arguments would be about cases and him nicking body-parts.

Of course John would notice the change of temperature quite hurriedly when things were awry between them, but he started to understand that they weren't in fact angry at each other.

He caught Sherlock's mouth quirking up in a smirk when he'd say awful things to Molly, or Molly's eyes sparkle when she disregarded him entirely.

So John stopped asking, he stopped joking about Molly being Sherlock's _girlfriend_, that when John said "Well, we both have somebody we love," instead of denying it, instead of brushing it off – Sherlock just smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading! Yes, there will be more from them.<strong>

**I'm just ending this one, so I can properly focus on the other, which will be a bit more plot-driven. **

**Thank you for your reviews - they have been helpful and very nice!**


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